New York ComiCon has come and gone.
A highlight of the boys' year; eagerly anticipated, enthusiastically participated in.
Especially since my husband is a comics professional; in the biz, as it were. So he's got a booth in Artists Alley (though writer he may be), and Ethan swells with pride as he confides to people he meets: "My Dad has a table here, we're working at the con."
And indeed we are. Although this year we didn't spend much time at the booth. Busy, busy. And every year it's different though seemingly the same. The boys a year older, changes subtle and great.
I think: In a few years time (one quick blink) I will be setting Ethan and his friends free here, cell phones and allowance cash in pockets, with rendezvous times and contingency plans in place. Teenagers.
I think: This is getting harder for Jake, he is enjoying it less. changes need to be made in the plans for next year. Autism.
I think: I am pulled in so many directions today, I am present in none. I should be with my mother in the hospital. I should be helping Danny in the booth more. I should be figuring out the autism friendly way to do this with Jake. I should be enjoying Ethan's shy basking in the adulation he's receiving over his costume (he was a PERFECT Link form Zelda).
Last year, in spite of being involved in the organization of it, my husband could not attend the Con, his 93 year-old mother having passed, right on cue, just before it began.
This year my mother is in the hospital, feeling abandoned, wondering why I'm not coming to her today, her memory unable to hold more than a thimbleful of information. I am grateful that most moments she remembers where she is. and why.
It's always something.
Who knows what next year's Con will hold. And I shouldn't be worrying about it yet. It's a whole damn year away.
But my brain, it goes that way. It goes.
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